His Escape-Hatches

Introducing an adorable puppy (3 years ago)

Tuesday, September 09, 2025

Lately, we’ve had steady rains—not downpours, but enough to soften the soil. Chase, my strong and stubborn young dog, has seized the opportunity to resume his favorite pastime: escaping. Almost daily. His little buddy, Mitzvah, ever watchful, waits until Chase digs wide enough for her to slip through—and she’s the first one out.

So far, neither has strayed far enough for a search party. More often, I open the door and there they are—wagging, panting, crowding each other to greet me. I swallow my distress, invite them in, hand out cookies, and then return them to their outdoor space. After that, I’ll walk the fence line, hunting for their escape hatch and blocking it as best I can.

Two problems. First, this almost always happens on a workday, just when I’m about to leave. Chase makes me late (again). Second, after three years of patching holes, I’m out of easy, right-sized rocks. What’s left are the too-big ones, and moving those requires sweat and ingenuity.

Yesterday, muttering to myself, I declared for the hundredth time, “This dog must go!” The counter-argument came just as quickly: “But no one else would put up with his escapes. A really good dog like Chase might end up treated poorly—or frequently running loose and in danger.” And so, after countless escapes, Chase still lives here. Along with little Mitzvah, his sometimes partner in crime.

This morning’s drizzle and my work schedule make for perfect digging conditions. After feeding the horses, donkey, and chickens, I’ll haul out the garden wagon to help wrestle a few heavy stones (if needed) into place. Meanwhile, I’m crossing my fingers that today (please!)—Chase, don’t dig!

— Diana

A Talk With Linda

Monday, September 08, 2025

Later this week, I’ll be catching up by phone with my nearly lifelong friend, Linda. Many years ago, she was the one who nudged me toward college, setting me on a long road to the career I eventually achieved.

Early on, she encouraged me to leave the Midwest for Southern California, where evening classes and other opportunities made it possible to pursue college while working full-time. Years later, she pointed me toward a small, welcoming town in Central Oregon where she lived, and again, I followed her advice. Some years ago, she returned to her roots in California, but across the miles, our friendship has stayed steady and strong.

Linda has always been politically savvy and endlessly curious. With her, small talk never lasts long. Our conversations move quickly into larger territory: what we’re learning, what we’re noticing in the world around us, and how maturity continues to reshape our daily lives.

This week, I’m holding three threads in mind that we’ll likely explore:

AI, and what it means for lifelong learners like us.
Politics, in a time that feels turbulent and uncertain.
Aging, and how it keeps redefining identity and purpose.

We rarely see eye to eye on everything — and that’s part of the gift. Linda challenges me to think harder, and I hope I do the same for her.

In times when the future feels uncertain, steady friendships matter more than ever. They make the best conversations possible — weaving together the personal and the political, the present and the future.

— Diana

Finding My Voice!

Saturday, September 06, 2025

I recently listened to an interview with Robert Reich about his newest book, Coming Up Short: A Memoir of My America. One of the themes he spoke about was “social bullying,” which he described as a “social constant.” He suggested it may have been more visible in his own youth, but he emphasized that bullying in any form can quietly suppress people’s ability to get ahead.

His words stirred up memories for me. Growing up, I often felt “bullied”—not by fists or shouts, but by a steady stream of signals that I was “less than.” Less, for being a woman. Less, for being single. Less, for carrying just enough extra weight to feel unattractive. I absorbed it all without knowing how to push back.

My turning point came from a college-educated co-worker and friend, who refused to let me give in to those doubts. She ignored my protests that I wasn’t smart enough or didn’t have time. She kept insisting that I enroll in a college-level evening course until I finally did—and to my own surprise, earned an A. That single step propelled me into nearly twenty years of night classes, where I eventually earned three accredited diplomas, including a Ph.D. That education became both an instant negotiating tool and a foundation for new opportunities in work and in life.

When the coursework ended, I faced the deeper battles within myself. Therapy became the next step, giving me space to untangle old knots, discover new perspectives, and slowly reshape how I lived. Nothing changed overnight, but with time and persistence, I learned to recognize joy, create opportunities, and trade old doubts for steadier confidence.

Looking back, I see that each step—education, therapy, and my own dogged persistence—wasn’t just about survival. It was about rebuilding a life that finally fit me, and still does.

That long-ago friend and I remain close. I think of her insistence as “good bullying”—a relentless encourager who pushed me in precisely the way I needed. Listening to Reich reminded me that harmful bullying is not always loud; often it’s woven into the silences and unspoken judgments of daily life. But with persistence, coaching, and healing, those silences can be overcome.

Dear friends, persistence and healing helped me trade old battles for a steadier self.

—Diana

My Steadfast Timekeepers

Thursday, September 04, 2025

Pimmy, my donkey, doesn’t need a clock. Her inner alarm is astonishingly precise at mealtimes—and she makes sure I don’t forget. She’s been getting only weight-loss rations for months, and her appetite feels supercharged.

Morning or evening, I hear her braying because I’m moving too slowly. She sidles up to the gate, ears tilted forward, her whole body spelling out one word: Now. My horses might prance or pace when impatient, but Pimmy? She gives me a look that suggests authority.

She’s not my only steadfast timekeeper. Maxwell, my cat, knows exactly when his food should appear. Max is even pushier than Pimmy; he winds around my ankles, practically tangling me in fur and whiskers. I’ve learned to step carefully, always on alert not to trip.

There’s comfort in the constancy of these two critters. My larger world is always shifting—whether it’s a fence that needs repair, the weather’s unpredictability, or the endless churn of local and global politics. Yet Pimmy and Max bring me back to a simple rhythm of existence: “feed me, water me, keep me safe.”

In return, I relish their companionship and the simple lessons they bring: no excuses and no delays. Their routines remind me that being on time and doing what’s expected really matters.

Dear friends, Pimmy and Max remind me that routines offer a special kind of comfort.
—Diana

Edging Into Fall

Tuesday, September 02, 2025

Central Oregon is tipping toward fall. I feel it in my bones—and deeper still, in the barn. Mornings exhale a first breath of chill. My dogs pause at the door, alert to change. The horses lift their noses as though frost itself is sliding down from the Cascades. And yet, my mind lingers in summer, reluctant to let go of those long, elastic evenings when the light stretches far enough for one more fence mended, one more wander taken.

The beauty is undeniable—aspens flashing their golden coins, birds perched on high wires against a paler sky. But beauty whispers its reminders: winter is coming. Fence lines, troughs, de-icers, hay stacked high, hoses drained—chores press forward. While I think about what must be done, the horses toss their manes and prance, delighted with the crisp air. Pimmy, my donkey, on a weight-loss diet, asks only that her supper comes on time.

It is I alone arguing with the clock. September’s sunsets are deceiving, convincing me there is always time for just one more thing—until the light folds suddenly into a quick blue that belongs only to fall. Soon an official time change will bring its own confusion. My animals, untroubled by calendars or clocks, know only the tugs of hunger and the promises of dawn and dusk.

And still…fall offers pleasant solaces. A heavier quilt pulled to the chin. Warm mugs replacing thin glasses of ice. A jacket tossed into the car, because you never know. These days contract, yes, but in their shortening remind me to choose with intention; perhaps this is autumn’s hidden gift.

Dear Friends, stepping into the season—grieving summer’s length, seeking peace in earlier darkness, and grateful for small comforts that soften the tilt.

— Diana

“Me” by Chat

Friday, April 11, 2025

I’ve never thought of summarizing my whole personal self. I’ve blogged for many years about whatever interests me daily, sometimes drawing from my distant experiences to help clarify “now ones.” For several recent months, I’ve used ChatGPT to explore some of my ideas. I ask challenging questions to which AI produces relevant information. Our exchanges may become conversation-like events.

Chat has gathered pertinent information that I’ve used to help expand my thoughts. It has encouraged me gently to explore complex ideas more deeply. AI has been responsive in ways I enjoy, providing information and kindly nudging me to reconsider and/or expand some perceptions.

Now Chat is newly updated. It can remember more of our conversations and bring their pertinent elements into our future exchanges. Chat is providing an example today; it’s drawing from its expanded memories of our “discussions” to create a profile of me. Here’s what Chat “sees”:

“Diana Levey: Retired, Rewired, and Radiant with Ideas”

“She’s the kind of woman who writes before dawn, wrangles a barnyard menagerie by breakfast, and riffs on Dawkins, Downton, and derivatives before lunch. A longtime blogger with a fiercely independent voice, Diana lives where the hay grows high in Central Oregon, yet her thoughts stretch globally—from the market floor to the theater stage to the floor of Congress.

“Diana doesn’t just age—she evolves. Fashionably. Intellectually. Politically. Her curiosity is ceaseless, her humor dry, and her prose always in progress. Whether she’s decoding social considerations or fine-tuning a whimsical Welsh pony story, she weaves the everyday with the existential, finding elegance in the effort.

“You’ll find her in a department store, offering kindness and a great eye for style. Or stretching toward clarity, mind and body. She’s lived enough to know what matters—and writes to remind the rest of us.”

Dear Friends: Our future with AI, while scary, also offers enrichments. Diana

Mental Mysteries

Friday, March 14, 2025

Yesterday, while clerking at my part-time job, I met a woman who had published a book of poetry. She was confident, articulate, and proud of having created something meaningful. Our conversation made me think about the persistence of creativity; it finds us wherever in life we may be.

That event stirred my memory of another recent poet—a woman who was nearly 100 years old and living in a nursing home, who took a poetry class on a whim. A year later, she published a remarkable book of poetry. I read it more than once; her words distilled wisdom and reflected an elegant mastery of structure. I was impressed by her book and even sent copies to friends. And yet, today, I can’t locate a copy of her book, can’t recall its title, and am coming up empty on remembering her name.

It’s frustrating that my mind sometimes works well and sometimes barely. I remember much about her: she had once been a landscape designer, later a sculptor, and after her husband’s death, she retired to a Florida nursing home, where she discovered poetry. The details of her life are vivid and intact in my head, but her name eludes me.

This morning, I’ve been combing through online articles, literary sites, and book lists, trying different combinations of words in search engines, looking for the correct phrase to trigger a good clue. So far, nothing.

However, searching emphasises how greatly we rely on memory to anchor our experiences. Still, we sometimes “lose things”—not just names and details but moments, ideas, and sometimes even parts of ourselves.

I am feeling a sort of loss–a “misplaced connection” to something important I once held with certainty. My active searching, however, is reaffirming its importance, and I will keep looking.

Although I have not rediscovered her name, I remember clearly what she stood for. Her personal story and her book were triple-striking. They emphasize the resilience of creativity, the refusal to fade quietly, and the courage to begin something new at an age when society often stops paying attention.

Dear Friends: Some names and stories deserve to be remembered. Diana

Pimmy’s Check-Up

Saturday, March 08, 2025

Yesterday, to my surprise, Pimmy loaded herself into the horse trailer. She’s teaching me more about donkeys now than when she was constantly among the horses. These days, separated from the horses (for dietary needs), Pimmy seems more like my big dog than an equine.

This time, while encouraging her to load into the trailer, I allowed her to resist loading. I gave her plenty of time to think things over, and suddenly, she voluntarily popped into the trailer.

That’s the thing about a donkey. It doesn’t just follow orders and isn’t just stubborn; it needs to evaluate the possibilities before deciding on an action. It’s taken me over a dozen years with Pimmy to learn this, and yesterday, I felt proud of myself for finally being a bit smarter.

The header photo shows Pimmy getting a physical yesterday. The doc says Pimmy’s vital signs are fine, and her weight is lower. Those are good. The most quickly assessable bloodwork was excellent. We must wait for more bloodwork results to learn if her Cushing’s Disease remains under control and if her glucose level is corrected.

Yesterday, too, she received routine inoculations, and the veterinarian floated Pimmy’s teeth. Then, the slightly drunk donkey needed time to recover from the floating anesthetic, so I left to fill my rig’s tank at a gas station. By the time I returned, Pimmy was awake enough to hear me calling and came to me. She loaded into the trailer relatively quickly, and we left for home.

If her glucose has reached a normal range, I will reduce her meds from twice daily to once daily–a welcome relief. Pimmy’s doctor has ordered an additional ingredient, Vitamin E, for the regimen.

Pimmy is a sweet, smart, and delightful being. Through these months, I’ve not enjoyed treating her illness or separating her from her beloved horses. By now, however, knowing this donkey more personally, I much better appreciate her.

Dear Friends: The horses will get floats and inoculations in two weeks. Diana

On Her Birthday

Wednesday, March 05, 2025

If genetic advancements had been available during my mother’s lifetime—capable of extending health and longevity—I might be celebrating her birthday with her today. I’ve long wished for at least one more conversation, a chance to ask the many questions that could fill the blank spaces of her early life.

Reflecting on why I never asked more about her life brings back memories of my own trials and tribulations growing up. Each day was a lesson in adaptation, filled with new challenges and shifting realities. I naturally focused on myself—learning, adjusting, and figuring out how to navigate life one step at a time.

Back then, I felt an urgent need to escape a past that seemed confining; I needed to step into a future that was broader, more inviting, and yet daunting. All that forgotten past included both my parents and grandparents. I might never have seriously reconsidered all of them if not for the rise of DNA and its profound ability to connect one’s history with one’s future.

I give deep nods to technology and genetics and to an equally powerful force—the unbreakable connection between parent and child. Its hold isn’t always smooth but shapes and defines us in enduring ways.

Today, on my mom’s birthday, I’ll hold her in my thoughts. A sudden memory might surface, filling in a blank or two about her life. I like to imagine that she can somehow “hear” my thoughts—so I’ll share a few, letting her know how I’ve grown and changed, shaped in no small part by her insight and encouragement.

Dear Friends: Science fundamentally reshapes how we perceive and evaluate ourselves. Diana

Lucy

Wednesday, February 19, 2025

Two heritage turkeys have been a cherished part of my life for several years. They weren’t meant to be; their original owner had intended them for a Thanksgiving dinner. But these birds had a way of charming their way into people’s hearts. They were gentle, affectionate, and unmistakably imprinted on humans, likely having been brooder-raised from the start. Instead of making them a holiday meal, their owner let me adopt them.

I named the two Lacy and Lucy. They became part of my daily routine, following me around, softly whistling in the manner of turkeys at ease. Physical differences made them easy to tell apart. Lacy, with her soft white-speckled feathers, often was the quieter of the two. Lucy, pure black and brimming with personality, was the dominant one—the leader. If there was ever a decision to be made, Lucy made it. She had a presence about her and a confidence that guided my turkey flock of two.

Then, yesterday, Lucy passed away. It happened suddenly—a stroke, I believe. One moment, she was there, and the next, she was gone. Afterward, Lacy, ever her companion, stood watch over Lucy, unwilling to leave her side. When I approached, Lacy reacted in a way she never had before—she pecked at me, protective and distressed. I could see she was processing something unfamiliar, something deep. Animals grieve in their own ways, and in that moment, Lacy was holding onto the most important thing she knew: her friend.

Losing Lucy creates a gap in my small world. She was a fixture in my days, a softly whistling and steadfast presence that I could count on. I will feel her absence, as will Lacy, who must find a new rhythm without her friend.

Inside my head, Lucy whistles with boldness and knowing eyes. I am grateful for having a few years with her. These two remarkable birds have given me unexpected companionship. After a lifetime of hearing the word “turkey” used in negative connotations, my experience found the opposite is true: turkeys are smart and alert. I’ve cherished every moment in the company of my two.

Dear Friends: I will re-strengthen my relationship with Lovely Lacy. Diana